Bog-winds on Girley Bog – 

the devil’s music, an angel’s harp.

But mostly it’s quiet enough

for the long siesta of geological time. 

Bog-winds on Girley Bog – 

the faint shock of the first blast 

when you step on the turf and walk

on ground that feels ready to collapse:

a bog meadow of ridges and ramparts, 

a spongy auditorium 

of rosemary and cotton grass, 

acres of deceit that wouldn’t hold a man 

or his horse, where you have to guess 

which way to turn, which way to aim

for the shortcut back to solid ground.